Painful Memory
by Minerva
Summary: Very brief fic. Daria remembers painful experience with Trent. Could use a lot of work, so please feel free to beat it to death.


I don't own Daria in any way shape or form, and am receving no financial compensation in writing this story.  
  
I must admit i haven't been watching Daria lately. School and stuff has kept me too busy to stay up that extra half-hour. So this fic won't be up to date to whatever's going on right now.   
  
This Daria won't really be like the Daria on t.v. This story is probably has a lot of holes in it, but it's my first Daria fic, so i don't expect it to be the epitome of greatness the first time.   
  
Keep the stone-throwing to a minimum.   
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Sitting in class from one day to the next, it takes every ounce of my will not to drive a pen into my ear...or someone else's. Here I am doing my own work, and the only reason the Mod-Squad clone next to me even acknowledges my existence is to ask me for my homework. To say I am bitter is an understatement.  
  
I look over to see a comatose Jane sprawled out on her desk. She really should bring a pillow, or at least a softer backpack.   
  
I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and look at the clock again. Five minutes since the last time I checked. The teacher passes out the essays from last week. I don't even glance at mine, knowing the grade already. I stuff it absently into my folder. The bell rings and I pat Jane on the head. She gets up and follows me out.  
  
"What did you dream about this time?," I ask.   
  
"Sawing trees," she says.  
  
"Aren't trees a phallic symbol?"  
  
"Probably, according to Freud."  
  
We get to our lockers, and I take a cursory glance at the inside of Jane's. Basically a junk heap. Seashells, incense sticks, india ink. The kind of wares you would find at a flea market.   
  
"You wanna come to Trent's thing tonight?, she asks.  
  
My blood runs cold in my veins. We probably haven't said a hundred words to each other.   
  
"Sure."  
  
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We clash. I'm an A student in highschool. He's in a band. I've liked him since I've met him, but he gave me no reason to think he feels the same way. I can't help myself though. I'm an idiot.  
  
I find myself wishing as I get home that that mess never happened.   
  
It was about a month ago. I had gone with Jane to hear him play. After his set he came over to us, and she, with a total lack of finesse, suddenly excused herself to the bathroom.   
  
We don't really say anything.   
  
"So what did you think about what I told you the other day?," he asks me.   
  
"About what?"  
  
"Spelling Mystic with a 'y,'" he says. Good lord.   
  
"It sounds okay." Silence. We just sort of keep glancing at each other, not quite knowing what to do. Then I do something I never do. I stick my tongue out at him. Very silly. Not like me at all.   
  
But he smiled.   
  
I smile and look away. I look back at him. And then he kisses me.   
  
I don't quite know what to do at first. The rest of my body is paralyzed, and only my lips and tongue are moving. Then he pulls me closer and I put my arms around him sort of. Our tongues are just sort of crashing into each other. It's total chaos, not tender at all. My head is swimming, my heart is beating fast, and adrenalin is pumping through my veins. I'm trembling. I don't think I was ever as happy or scared as I was at that moment. Happy that it was happening, scared of what would happen when it was over.   
  
Then it was over.  
  
"I haven't kissed someone in a while," he says.   
  
"Yeah...," I say. Still trembling.  
  
"Hey, are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. I think we should sit down."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah we should."  
  
We sit at one of the tables. "What are you thinking right now?," he asks me.  
  
Still shaking, still excited. "Nothing. I'm just like, wow," I say smiling. "What are you thinking?"  
  
"I'm wondering what's going to happen when we walk out that door," he says. He doesn't sound excited, doesn't have that playful smile on his face.  
  
"Well, I take this kind of thing seriously," I say, still hoping that he's feeling what I'm feeling. But when he looks down at the table, I know he's not.   
  
"I'm feeling so bad right now."  
  
I had never seen him look that way before. He always seemed so cool and laid back. What I saw before me was pure remorse and misery.   
  
I am the Misery Chick.  
  
It's late. The club's about to close. "I can't move," he says.   
  
I take his hand. "Come on."   
  
"Thank you," he says.  
  
We hug at the door and he leaves. I run out into the night, not looking back.   
  
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We made an effort to keep things the way they were. Our behavior is bittersweet. We haven't told anyone about what happened.  
  
I change my mind. I call Jane and tell her I'm not up to it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Crappy ending and very brief story. But i don't know what else to do with it. I really couldn't think of a plot other than this one...it's based on something that happened to me. So, constructive criticism is welcome. 


End file.
